


Oceans That Separate

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-09-09
Updated: 2002-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are hard to control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oceans That Separate

Tony had come into the studio with only the bare facts; someone new joining the mix, an American friend of Mike's. Tony hoped for the best; one of the risks of impro was that a single missed rhythm could throw the whole game off.

He walked into the green room and found what he assumed was the American friend sitting on the sofa, looking awkward and uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit. He rose and stuck out his hand.

"Hi. I'm Greg."

"Tony. Hullo," Tony said. He felt slightly off-balance. Americans had a way of instantly assuming familiarity. "You’re joining us today?"

"Yeah." Greg held a folded piece of paper in his left hand; Tony watched him threading it through his fingers, over and over again. "I guess it kinda looks that way."

Greg was all sharp lines, Tony thought, as though he had been drawn by a caricaturist. He had intelligent, searching eyes behind large spectacles. Tony asked, "When did you arrive?"

"Half an hour ago, I think."

Tony raised his eyebrows. "You just came straight from the airport, then?"

"What? Oh. You mean here-here. That was yesterday sometime."

"Have you been here before?" Tony said. He always felt awkward making small talk; he wasn't terribly good at it, but he didn't want to stand around staring while waiting for everyone else.

"No. Is it obvious?"

"Not apparently. Except for the accent."

"Yeah, I guess that would be a tell-tale sign." Greg sat back down. He unfolded the scrap of paper, re-folded it, and unfolded it again. "Who else is gonna be on this? Besides McShane."

"Josie should be here soon. That rounds it out."

Greg slouched against the sofa, then sat up again. It seemed as though he were trying to find the best 'relaxed' pose. Tony wanted to say, "It isn't so bad, really." But he doubted it would do any good. When Tony had first come on, a year ago, no amount of advice could make him feel confident until he was actually on the stage. He sat down beside Greg.

"What was the name again?" Greg asked.

"Josie."

"Josie. Yeah. I haven't met her or anything yet." He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he didn't. "You live around here, man?"

"Close to. I take the train in. Have you gotten a chance to look around yet?"

"Not really. I wanted to, but getting to the hotel and everything…I don't know, stuff got in the way. Are they just gonna call us, or do we go down to the set on our own?" He began shredding the already dog-eared scrap of paper absently, though his face remained expressionless.

"They'll call us," Tony said. He had a sudden memory of himself on the first day of Cambridge, wandering the grounds, clutching his books, trying to look like he belonged. He said to Greg, "Are you feeling all right?"

Greg looked up. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Improv and whatever. Just another gig." He looked down at the piece of paper and pushed it away.

On impulse, Tony reached over and patted Greg's shoulder. "You'll do fine."

Greg looked at him, a small, surprised smile breaking through. He had a nice smile. Tony thought amusedly, *He's just a pup.* Before he could say anything else, the others began trickling in.

*****

"You're coming round tonight, yeah?" Josie said to Tony after the taping. She stood brushing her hair out over the dressing room mirror. Tony was itching to leave and get himself together, but it wouldn't look good to leave too suddenly.

"I think so. Who will be there?"

"The regulars, I think." Josie put her brush down. "I invited Mike's American friend."

"Really?" Tony leaned against the doorframe. "Well, this is sudden, isn't it?"

"Tony. He'll probably be coming back. We should at least make an effort to be friendly."

"I think you just fancy him."

"He's not my type." She started towards the door. "I think you might get on with him, though."

"I've barely spoken to him."

"I just think you'll get on. Try to be on time tonight, will you, darling?"

Tony was not on time for the party. Josie met him at the door, brushing her way through the crowded room.

"Good to see you," she shouted over the noise. "Drink?"

He followed her to the kitchen, where she gave him a Guinness and said, "How was it getting here?"

"Bit rushed. Everything crawls on its stomach this time of night, you know---"

"Oh, bugger," Josie said, staring over his head. "She's going to destroy my spider plant. I'll be back." She rushed back into the front room. Tony knew once she was there, she'd get distracted by someone and wouldn't come back.

He took a gulp of his drink and surveyed the room. It seemed packed with bodies, and he either didn't know or didn't like many of them.

"Had enough," Tony said to himself and headed out to the terrace, avoiding eye contact.

Josie's terrace was narrow and constructed of alarmingly fragile-looking iron. Tony's footsteps clattered. The figure sitting at the end looked up startledly. Tony jumped before he realized it was only the American, Greg.

"Oh, hullo," Tony said when he recovered enough to speak. "Good to see you here. How are you enjoying yourself?"

Greg's legs hung over the edge of the balcony. A burning cigarette glowed in his right hand. "Oh, hi. I'm fine. Just wanted to get out and enjoy the view or whatever. It's nice when it's all lit up like this."

"Bit different from home, I'd imagine."

"A little. It's smaller. Like it better than some of the places I've seen. Idaho is a godforsaken wasteland." Greg looked up. "I guess I should apologize for being a prick earlier."

"Oh," Tony said, startled. "I suppose you were nervous."

"I thought I was gonna be sick. It's funny now." Greg seemed more genuinely relaxed than before; the fidgeting was at a minimum. "Not the best first impression I could have made, but you know."

"It's a bit nerve-racking when you don't know who you'll be with. Good that Mike was there."

"Yeah, that helped. I had this thought I was gonna come on like David Niven, you know. Sipping a martini, telling everyone how marvelous they were."

"Perhaps we should have given you a drink, then."

Greg laughed. Tony realized that he was beginning to like him.

"It's better now, though?" Tony said.

Greg tilted his head up at Tony and smiled faintly. "Yeah. It's a little... It's probably just me, though. You know. 'It's not the oceans which cut us off from the rest of the world…'"

"'It's the American way of looking at things.'" Tony sat down beside Greg. "Henry Miller, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I grabbed something to read on the plane. Got the Air-Conditioned Nightmare by chance. That fuckin' quote's been running through my head ever since I got off the plane." Greg exhaled smoke at the sky. "I don't really read a lot of Miller, but it's interesting."

"I read that a few years ago," Tony said. "Back at university. You know how everyone likes to be bohemian then. I would wander about and smoke these hideous-smelling cloves and read Henry Miller."

"I always went in for Kerouac, myself. Stereotypical high school reading."

"You know," Tony said, wondering if he was making a mistake, "I'd like to take a look at Miller again. Do you still have it?"

Greg looked at him. "Really? I don't have it with me. It's back at my hotel."

"Would you mind lending it to me? Perhaps we could have lunch tomorrow, you could bring it."

"It's a lot of trouble to go through just for a book, man."

"It is. But I'd like to talk with you some more." Tony inclined his head back towards the flat. "Away from this."

Greg thought for a minute. Finally he smiled. "Yeah. Okay."

*****

Greg showed up at the restaurant with the book under his arm. Tony stood out in front, waiting. "Greg. Any trouble getting here?"

"No. Well, the cab driver didn't have any trouble." He handed over the book. "Um. This is old, so watch out for ripped pages."

"Ah. Well." Tony took the paperback. It was dog-eared, with satisfying weight. "You obviously have great respect for literature." He smiled.

"Oh, obviously. You're not a reader until you spill red wine all over your book collection."

"I'll get it back to you before you leave. When will that be?"

Greg shrugged. "You know what? I'll take it back if it's possible, but don't kill yourself. I don't know when I'll be back here."

Tony didn't know what to say. He settled for, "Care to join me?" and motioned towards the restaurant door.

"Please."

Once they'd been seated, Tony wondered if he'd made a mistake inviting Greg out alone. Chatting had never been something he was good at.

Luckily, Greg started first. "How long have you been on the show?"

"A year or so. I'd been doing impro since I was in university and playing at acting."

"Really? You studied it too?"

"Not really. A hobby that became a profession."

"See, you could actually go out and get, like, a real job. Whereas I'm screwed."

"I'm not sure what I could have done with my degree. Been a rather linguistically skilled waiter."

"I hear those are in high demand." Greg paused. The waiter came to drop off the menus. Tony looked at it fixedly, planning the next conversational gambit. He wished he were better at life offstage.

When he finally stopped hiding behind the menu, he watched Greg; again he felt the tinge of amusement. Greg studied the menu as though he were taking exams, scowling at it.

"Have trout," Tony said when he stopped feeling amused and started feeling sorry for Greg. "It's not likely to kill you."

Greg looked up, smirking. "I keep pretending I know what I'm doing, but I'm not that good at it yet."

He was an uneasy, intense mixture of brashness, intelligence and warmth. Tony was intrigued despite himself. "It's just like any other place, you know," he said, trying to say the right thing.

"Really." Greg said. He laid the menu on the table, repetitively running his fingers over the embossed paper. "It takes me a while to get used to places."

"Will you be staying here long? Perhaps you'll have time to grow accustomed."

Greg shook his head. "I'll be leaving soon. I'm getting married in a month, need to go home and help get it all ready." There was a sudden grin, a flash of pride.

"Really? Congratulations." Tony extended his hand. Greg shook it. "Must be a bit nerve-racking."

"Terrifying. It's time, though. She's been un-fucking-believably patient with me. I've had *way* more time to sow my wild oats than I deserved." Greg took a drink of water. "Time to settle down."

"You quite ready?"

Greg looked up. His eyes glinted amusedly behind the spectacles. "Isn't it obvious?"

"I don't know you terribly well yet, so I'll refrain from answering at the moment."

"That's gentlemanly of you."

"I do try." Tony paused again as the waiter returned. "Will you be coming back to London again?"

"I'd like to, man. It depends if they ask me. You know how it goes. It's all uncertain."

"Life on a knife, as they say."

"Mmm. What do you do when you're not working? You know, to unwind."

It occurred to him that he didn't know the answer to the question. "Oh, the usual things."

Greg laughed. "That sounds fun."

"It's been a while since I've had really time to unwind. I don't bother myself about it anymore."

"Wow." Greg whistled impressedly. "I wish I had that work ethic, man."

"It's not like that, really."

"Okay." He started picking at the menu again; the waiter had forgotten to take it back. Tony felt slightly naked and he didn't know why.

Greg looked up and cleared his throat. "So I should do the stupid-tourist thing and ask if I should go see anything in particular. Besides, you know, Big Ben."

"When I was younger I used to go to the park in Camley Street quite often. I haven't been there for a number of years. I remember it being always full of hazel and silver birch. I'd sit by the canals and watch the boats…" Aware that he was coming perilously close to being maudlin, Tony cut himself off.

Greg leaned forward, waiting for the end of the story. When it didn't come he stayed leaning forward, watching Tony quietly. Tony shrugged. "It all sounds a bit precious, doesn't it? You could go to the Houses of Parliament for some real interest."

"It sounds nice."

"Not exactly essential, though."

"Depends," Greg said. "If I'm here, I might as well experience everything, right?"

"That's a good way to look at it. When do you have to go back?"

"Uh…Two days. Two days."

"Not much time to experience it all."

"I know. Plus, knowing how fucking lazy I am, I'll be lucky to see anything."

"Perhaps there'll be time when you come back."

Greg half-smiled. "When? I think it's more a question of 'if.'"

"When you come back," Tony repeated.

"Ah, optimism. When I come back, I'll try to take everything in."

When the meal ended, Tony had already half-decided to take Greg down to Camley Street, the next time round, when they both had more time.

Greg got into a cab outside the restaurant to go back to the hotel. Tony went into the nearest pub and drank lager until his exposed feeling left him, all the while hanging on the solid weight of The Air-Conditioned Nightmare, its pages marked and torn by Greg's nervous hands.

*****

The next time Tony saw Greg was two months later. He'd been asked back, as Tony knew he would be. Once more he was with Mike.

Tony carried The Air-Conditioned Nightmare under his arm. Mike spotted him and waved him over. "Tony." He moved aside to allow Tony access into the huddle. "Come say hello."

"Hullo, Mike. Nice to see you again," Tony said to Greg. "I've brought your book back."

Greg looked blankly at him for a second, then smiled with recognition. He took the book. The wedding ring on his left hand glinted under the light.

"I was just saying," Mike said, "that if you ask me, this whole taping's a shitty idea. Six people on one show? Hours of padding."

"I know. Have you seen Paul yet? He looks like he's just been exhumed," Tony said. "But mustn't grumble."

"You mustn't grumble. I must," Mike said. "Greg, grumble with me."

Greg smiled. "I have better things to piss and moan about."

"Suit yourself. Hey, Tony, want to come have a drink or something after this whole mess is finished? Benefit us with your vast knowledge."

Tony had gone drinking with Mike before, but it had always been in a larger group. He knew Mike and Greg were close; Mike had been instrumental in getting Greg on the show in the first place. There was the danger of being a third wheel in going out with Greg and Mike alone. "Are you sure I'll be welcome?"

Mike rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't have asked if you weren't."

Tony looked to Greg, unsure why he felt the need to. Greg met his eyes. He seemed only half-there, focusing inward on some hidden point. He straightened a little, eyes clearing. "Yeah, Tony. Come along."

*****

The pub smelled of smoke and spilled lager. Mike leaned over the table, crowded with assorted empty pints, gesturing at Greg.

"*Never* take this kid to anywhere resembling polite society. I remember this time in college---"

"Kid," Greg interrupted, laughing. "I've known him ten years. No, I've known him *longer* than that, and I'm still 'kid.' When am I gonna hit puberty, McShane? You know, somewhere in this lifetime?"

Tony leaned back, drinking his lager and smiling. He knew he wasn't part of the circle, but, rather than being awkward as he'd feared, Greg and Mike seemed to enjoy having an audience to witness their two-man act.

"You know you'll always be a kid to me, Greg."

"I suppose that's something I have to deal with, then."

"Are you going to let me tell this story?"

"I think the answer's obvious, don't you?"

"All right then. Since my skills as a raconteur aren't appreciated here, I'm going back to the bar." Mike heaved himself out of the chair and wove through the crowd.

"He's drunk," Greg informed Tony cheerfully. "Tonight's gonna be interesting."

"I imagine so."

Greg leaned back and lit a cigarette. "Thanks for bringing this back." He took the book out of his lap and gestured with it. "I'd forgotten about it."

"I keep my promises," Tony said. He was drunk, feeling relaxed and casual.

"I have no idea what you mean, but it sounds nice." Greg looked around the pub. "How'd you pick this place, anyway?"

"Stumbled across it one day."

"I've never seen so many bars jammed together in one place in my entire life. It's like an amusement park but with booze."

"I suppose you take it for granted after a while."

"I guess it's different when you live here." Greg swallowed the last of his lager. "But if you're me…Fuck, I'm a married man now. Can't be running around acting stupid. Are you married?"

"Me? No, I'm not. I have free license to act like a fool. How was the wedding? I remember you mentioning it when I saw you last."

"Oh, it was great. It would have been cool if she could have been here, but…" Greg's smile turned faint and faraway. "But she couldn't."

"That's unfortunate."

Greg sighed. "Yeah. But, you know. I'm a grownup. I can get along without, you know, constant attention."

"Must be difficult, though."

"I can get along," Greg repeated quietly.

Mike came back, three pints balanced precariously in his hands. "I miss anything?"

"Not really." Tony put out his hand. "Is that mine?"

"Yeah. Grab it quick, I'm going to drop it."

Tony relieved him of the pint. Mike settled back into his chair, sliding a glass over to Greg.

"McShane, I'm half in the bag as it is. I don't need another one. You drink it."

"I'm not drinking two at once. What do you take me for?"

"I don't want it."

"Yeah, you do."

"No, I don't."

Mike stared impassively across the table. "Oh, fuck it," Greg said and reached for the drink. "Christ, you're impossible."

They left the bar at ten thirty. It had been spitting rain earlier, but the night had turned foggy and warm.

"We getting a cab?" Greg asked. "Train?"

"Walk with me," Mike said, striding forward.

"Micheal," Tony called. "You don't know where you're going."

"I know *exactly* where I'm going."

For a big man, Mike moved incredibly fast. Greg hung back with Tony, boozily slinging an arm around his shoulders.

"It's a nice night to walk, right?"

"I suppose. My goodness, but you're close. I believe you're trying to molest me." Tony struggled to find a balance between his own pace and Greg's loping one.

"Molest? Who uses the word molest anymore?"

"I do, thank you. Perhaps I'll scream for help."

"Bet you scream like a girl."

"Molested *and* insulted. I really cannot believe I'm letting you do this, my dear sir."

"Will you two shut up back there?" Mike said. "Jesus, I can't think with you jabbering."

"I thought you knew exactly where we're going, McShane," Greg shouted back, almost directly in Tony's ear.

"I do. I know exactly where we are."

"Well, where are we, genius?"

"Lost," Mike said cheerfully and turned around. "Wanna split a cab?"

They wound up back at Tony's flat. Tony bustled about and made coffee, spilling grains all over his kitchen countertop, while Greg and Mike argued in the living room about what to do next.

The arguing finally ceased and Greg came into the kitchen, weaving a little. Tony handed him coffee.

"Thanks. I think we're gonna take off. You don't need our drunk asses sprawled all over your place."

"Oh?" Tony felt faintly disappointed. He was in the expansive mode of drunkenness, and he wanted company while he worked through it. At least until he wanted to be alone again. "Well, if you'd like to stay, I'd be happy to have you."

"Yeah?" Greg looked unreasonably pleased.

"Of course."

For a moment, Greg stood, lips parted, about to say something. Then he drew back, shaking his head. "'Nother time, maybe?"

"Of course."

"Okay. Can I use the phone?"

He nodded. Greg picked up the phone, scowling intently at the keypad, and dialed. When he hung up, he said to Tony, "Look, I just wanna…thanks for coming out tonight, man. It was fun."

"It was," Tony said. "We must do it again."

"Whenever's good for you, buddy." Greg swallowed the rest of the coffee and went back out to the living room. Tony trailed after him.

Mike was asleep on the sofa. Greg walked over and shook him gently. "McShane. C'mon, Muff, wake up."

Mike grumbled and opened one eye.

"We're leavin', big dude," Greg said. Mike heaved himself off the sofa and flapped a hand at Tony.

"Bye, man," Greg said as they left, one hand resting on Mike's back. Tony made his way to bed.

*****

Tony didn't see Greg again for a few weeks, until he came back to shoot more episodes. Tony found him in the Green Room.

"We have got to stop meeting like this," Greg said dryly, sprawled on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table.

"If you can find a better spot."

"Got me there."

"You're becoming quite the regular presence here, aren't you?" Tony said. "They must like you."

Greg was silent for a moment. He smiled tentatively. "Yeah, I guess it kinda looks that way. You want to meet up after this is over? Drinks or somethin'?"

Tony mentally ran over his schedule. He was performing with the Players that evening. "Can't tonight, I'm afraid. Work. Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Yeah, okay."

"I'll give you my number. Ring me tomorrow morning, we'll see what's possible." Tony scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it over. Greg put it in his pocket.

"I'll call you then."

"Please."

*****

Tony got back from the Store aching and damp from the rain, the smell of cigarettes stuck to his clothes. He immediately headed for the kitchen for medicinal brandy. It was quarter past eleven. He went out into the living room.

The doorbell rang.

He put the glass down, a dull coppery sensation growing in his stomach. His first thought was that something horrible had happened. An accident, someone hurt, someone robbed and in hospital. He got up and went to answer the door. Greg was standing on the step.

The first feeling was a flood of relief---no police, no crying relatives---and then amazement. He wondered if he should open the door and shout at Greg for coming unannounced this late at night, but he was too startled to be angry. He opened the door.

It had been raining all night; Greg's hair was plastered to his forehead, his spectacles were foggy. Tony said, "Greg. What are you doing here?"

"Did I wake you?"

"No. No, you didn't. What do I owe this visit to?"

Greg continued as if he hadn't heard, words spilling out at top speed, "I was gonna come earlier, but I got lost. Couldn't remember your street name and there aren't any fucking signs anywhere."

"Yes, but why? Did you want something?"

Greg stared blankly at him. His mouth opened and closed. There was something there, under the skin, rapidly rising to the surface. Greg swallowed, shuddered. "Look, man, it's too late. I shouldn't have come. I'll see you around, okay?"

Tony thought he should agree, but now his curiosity was piqued. "No, no, no," he said. "I'm just surprised, that's all. What is it?"

"I wanted…I was gonna…I had…oh, fuck, Tony, I just wanted to come." Greg's shoulders slumped. He looked so soggy and deflated that Tony didn't have the heart to tell him to leave.

"Of course, it's fine. Come in before you catch cold."

Greg walked in. He stood in the hall dripping, face scarlet.

"Do you want anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"Tea's good." Greg took off his spectacles and made an ineffectual swipe at them with his shirt sleeve before putting them back on.

"Maybe you'd like a towel as well."

"Yeah, that might work. Could I, um---" Greg gestured vaguely.

"Go ahead. Down the hall." Tony went into the kitchen and put water on. This was a puzzling thing to happen late at night.

He came back into the living room. Greg stood looking out the large front window. A towel hung in his right hand, his hair was mussed. Tony called his name.

Greg turned around. "It rains differently here."

"Pardon?"

"It rains differently. Back home, it doesn't rain that often---" Greg looked back at the window. "But when it did---I remember being a kid, you know, looking out at the sky. When it rained, the sky would turn purple. The raindrops would come down so fast they bounced off the pavement like Superballs."

"Superballs?"

"A Superball is---never mind. Anyway. It's been raining since I got here. Every single time I come over, it's been raining. But it's not…it doesn't seem real. The sky just kind of drips constantly."

The kettle whistled in the kitchen. Tony wasn't sure of what to say.

"Sorry," Greg mumbled. "None of this makes any sense." He turned back around, hands resting on the window sill.

Tony took a step forward. Greg's shoulder blades pressed against the wet fabric of his shirt. He looked incredibly small in the dark light of Tony's living room.

"It's just a bit different, that's all. Just needs a little period of adjustment," Tony said.

"I know. I know, I know, I know. I'm just fuckin' sick of having to readjust. I mean, I thought things were one way, and I was *so* goddamned wrong, and just…fuck." He took his spectacles off, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand.

"How'd you get here?"

"Walked."

"Do you want to stay here tonight?" Tony said.

Greg turned. "Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, I would."

Tony went in search of linens for the spare room. Greg trailed nervously after him.

"Can I help or anything?"

"No, no. You're the guest. You have no responsibilities." The linens in his hands were stiff with disuse, smelling faintly of washing powder. Tony tossed them onto the spare room's bed.

Greg leaned against the door frame. He was doing a bad impression of being relaxed, Tony thought. "Greg, stop dripping on the floor. Sit down at least." The sheets made a soft whoosh sound as he pulled them over the bed.

Greg sat in the chair by the dresser, pulling off his shoes. The socks, when he pulled them off, hung damply in his hands. He put them down and stayed leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the socks, lying on top of his shoes like limp cloth tongues.

"Greg?" Tony said. There was no answer. Greg scrubbed at his nose with the back of one hand.

"Come now," Tony said. He walked over to the chair. "It's not that bad." The sentence sounded ridiculous to him, a falsely hearty chin-up-old-man thing to say. He laid a hand on Greg's shoulder and patted it awkwardly. Beneath the fabric Greg felt as though he was only made of bone and nerve. "Come now," Tony repeated.

Greg looked up. His eyes were bottomless. Tony stroked the back of his head, letting his fingers trail past Greg's damp curls onto the warm, thin skin of the back of his neck. He imagined he could feel the throb of blood through veins, his fingertips reading Greg like a map. Then he took his hand away. "Go to sleep." His voice was huskier than it should have been.

Greg rose, watching him silently. "I'll see you in the morning," Tony said.

"Yeah. Morning."

Tony went outside and shut the door.

In the morning he found a note in the kitchen.

*Tony,

Sorry about last night. I took off before I could overstay my welcome. I'll see you around.

Thanks,  
G.*

*****

There was always an excuse for a booze-up as the end of the taping season neared. Josie wanted it to be at his flat. Hers was being redone.

"Just have the regulars, anyone's who's around," she said. "It'll be a laugh."

Tony was up for the occasional party, the brief break from routine. "D'you know who'll be around?"

"Erm. Mike's American friend should be here then."

"Oh?" Tony hadn't spoken with Greg since the long, strange night in his flat. "Hmm. Why don't you just invite everyone round for me? I'll have everything ready."

"Darling, it's *your* flat. You invite them."

"Well, I believe you're the one who suggested having it there. I merely agreed. I'm simply the host for your party."

"You," Josie drawled, "are a lazy sod."

"Well, *obviously.*" Tony laughed. "Now be a dear and do this for me."

Josie sighed. He knew she'd do it.

He stocked the flat with the essentials: wine, lager, liquor. He was comfortable in the role of bartender.

The booze-up began at seven. Greg arrived at quarter past eight; Tony almost didn't hear the bell over the bell over the assembled voices.

Greg stood on the step, holding a brown paper sack. His hair was longer than when Tony had last seen him; it jutted from his head in waves.

"Hullo, Greg," Tony said. "Good to see you again."

"Hey. Brought you something." Greg handed him the sack. "I didn't know if it was BYOB or not, so I might have erred on the side of caution."

Tony withdrew a bottle of single-malt from the sack. "Oh, my. This is nice, isn't it?"

"I hope so. I took the liquor store guy's word on it. Look, Tony, I wanted to apologize…"

"For what?"

"You know. When I crashed here a month ago."

"Oh, *that,*" Tony said. "That was nothing."

"Yeah, it's just…I was in this sort of thing at the time. I guess I was homesick or whatever. I just wanted to say thanks, you know."

"No thanks necessary." Tony ushered him in.

As the night progressed, the cloud of cigarette smoke in the living room grew bigger and bigger, hovering halfway above the sofa. Tony was very drunk. He had abandoned his bartending post when the labels on the bottles had begun to blend together.

Greg was standing beside him. He lolled his head in Tony's direction and said, "This is turning into an orgy."

Tony surveyed the room. The voices were raised, but no one seemed to have gotten undressed. "It's rather a sedate orgy, don't you think?"

"Not for long. Who's that?" Greg pointed at a red-clad figure in the center of the room.

Tony squinted. For a moment he didn't even recognize the woman; it was a friend of Josie's. "Carol. That's Carol."

"Carol's ready to get *down,* man. She's going to take her shirt off and start dancing."

"Carol's a chartered accountant."

"I hear those chicks are wild." Greg drained his beer bottle and let it hang from his fingers.

Tony laughed. "Shall we bring out the scotch?" He dragged Greg into the kitchen. The single malt was on the counter, still untouched, which was a relief. Tony struggled to open the bottle.

"Have a nice glass with me."

"I'm not a big scotch guy, Tony…"

"Don't be silly. I'll be terribly insulted if you refuse." The scotch gurgled cleanly into glasses. Tony handed Greg one.

Greg took a swig and choked. Tears started from his eyes.

Tony laughed again. He was on the verge of tittering. "It's nice," Greg managed, his voice clotted.

"You're not much of a drinker, are you?"

"I'm fine…just drank too fast, that's all."

"Lightweight." Tony jabbed at him.

Greg sidestepped the jab. "Well, we can't all be alcoholics, Tony. Sorry to disappoint you."

"I am *terribly* disappointed." Tony took a long drink. "This is rather good, actually."

"What do you expect, I've got good taste. Or I tend to attract others of good taste."

Tony looked at him. Greg's eyes were heavy-lidded, face flushed. He stared silently back at Tony.

"Should see how everyone's getting on," Tony said and walked out of the kitchen, imagining Greg's puzzled face behind him.

There was an abandoned coat draped over the back of the sofa. He picked it up before it could get used as an ashtray and brought it into the bedroom, where he tossed it down with the others. His bedspread had been replaced by leather and cloth coats.

He heard the door close behind him. He turned; Greg stood in the doorway, hands braced against the frame.

"Hullo," Tony said. "What is it?"

"You wanna?" There was no mistaking the invitation. There was the faintest suggestion of a drawl in Greg's voice, warm and slow.

"Pardon?"

"Look, it's late, I've had a few too many drinks, and I'm all out of pickup lines. C'mon."

"You've gone mad," Tony said, not moving. "I do believe you've gone quite mad."

"I'm just asking."

"Well, perhaps I don't want to answer." He began to laugh.

"Why not?"

"I don't need to."

"I think you do."

"Not so. Anyway, perhaps I'd rather you make a little effort."

"Too boring." Greg clumsily unbuttoned his shirt cuffs.

"Romance is dead," Tony said with a melodramatic sigh.

Greg looked up. His eyes sparked. "That's right. Now get your cute little ass over here."

"I could say the same to you."

"Really." Greg moved with confident strides across the carpet. "And I'm doing it."

"Utterly and completely daft," Tony half-whispered, looking up at Greg's dark eyes.

"Isn't it?"

"People will hear," Tony said weakly.

"Fuckin' let 'em." Greg pulled him close.

*Too bloody drunk,* Tony thought. Greg's mouth was fermented, his teeth too close and active. An engulfing mouth, starving and overly eager. His tongue slid into Tony's mouth, blindly, frantically. Tony needed air.

He broke away and stepped back. He knocked into the end of the bed and lost his balance, falling into the mass of coats. Leather slick against his face.

"Tony?" He heard the familiar Greg in the voice again, concerned, curious, tentative. "You okay?"

Tony murmured, "Yes, yes, fine," and pulled Greg down with him. "Think you can?"

Greg grinned a half-cocked smile. His spectacles were crooked. "You obviously don't know me that well, buddy. Take your shirt off."

"It's got too many bloody buttons."

Greg pushed his hands away. He straddled Tony on the bed and started attempting to unbutton his shirt. He moved slowly, frowning. He looked so solemn that Tony began to laugh.

"Fuck off," Greg said, laughing back. "This is hard." Abandoning the task, he leaned down, pressing his nose under Tony's jaw.

Tony reached for him, but Greg stopped him with one thin hand, catching his wrists. Tony turned his head to the side. Greg nipped at his throat. His tongue flicked across thin skin; Tony shuddered at the sudden warmth and sudden cold as he moved on to other things. Actually, this was rather nice, the engulfing mouth grown more complacent, licking, sucking…

Snoring.

"Greg?" Tony said. Greg's hands loosened their grip. Tony struggled to raise his head. Greg's eyes were shut, mouth hanging open slightly. He was dead to the world.

"Bloody hell," Tony muttered, trying to get up. Despite his thinness, Greg in sleep became incredibly heavy and ungainly; Tony was pinned under him. He had to laugh. *Tony Slattery found dead under drunken Yank…*

Giggling hysterically, Tony managed to slide out from under Greg's body. He took off Greg's spectacles and laid them on the bedside table. Greg curled into a ball on his side. Tony grabbed a stray coat and draped it over him. It was Josie's coat. She wouldn't be pleased.

"Good night, Greg," Tony said loudly.

Greg mumbled something that sounded like 'bacon and eggs.' Tony went to explain to Josie that she couldn't have her coat back that night.

*****

That night he slept on the sofa. When he woke, the hangover was better than he expected it to be but still vaguely unpleasant. The living room smelled of stale smoke.

He rose, wincing, and went into the kitchen to prepare coffee, thinking about checking to see if Greg was still in his bedroom. He swallowed two paracetamol tablets instead.

He heard thumping footsteps down the hall. Greg entered the kitchen. His eyes were red and puffy, hair jutting from his head at a crazy angle. He blinked confusedly around him.

"Good morning," Tony said cheerily. "How'd you sleep?"

"Rrrah," Greg growled and went for the coffee. He slumped down at the table over his mug and didn't look up for five minutes. "Ow," he said finally.

"Take these." Tony slid the paracetamol along to him.

"Mmm." Greg swallowed. "I stole your bed last night."

"And Josie's coat."

"Fuck." Greg swallowed the last of the coffee and hauled himself to a standing position. "Where's your sink?"

"In front of you."

"Oh." He rinsed out the mug, yellowish water swirling away. "Tony…"

"Yes?"

"What happened last night was…"

"Things happen when you're drunk," Tony said. "It's been forgotten."

"Yeah. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not forget about it."

Tony blinked. "Sorry?"

"I mean…Look, I'm hungover and it's going to be tough to be coherent. I'm just saying, what happened…it wasn't just me being drunk and stupid. It's more…" He put the mug down. "I'm not gonna go into detail. Draw your own conclusions."

"You're married," Tony said.

Greg looked at him evenly. "That's right."

"And you're not worried about your wife at all?"

When Greg spoke, his voice was very quiet. "I'm not about to let anything come out that would hurt her."

"You can't be sure."

"No. There's a lot of things I can't be sure of." Greg still hadn't broken the calm, steady gaze. "If that bothers you…"

"I'm not sure yet."

"Then what is it?" Greg dragged a hand through his hair, making an attempt to straighten it.

"It depends on what you're asking for."

"It's not exactly a business merger, Tony, you know?" For the first time, Greg's gaze wavered.

"I'm not terribly easy to be with," Tony said gently.

"This may come as a huge-ass surprise to you, but neither am I." Greg pushed the empty mug down the counter. "I'm not in a position to make promises, okay? All I'm saying is I'm willing to try. That's it."

"You're risking a lot, aren't you?" Tony said. "I'm not sure why."

Greg groaned. "Because, all right?"

"That's not an answer."

Greg said softly, "Because every time I look at you, I just about lose my mind."

Tony had no more reasoning, no more excuses to offer. Sunlight filtered in from the kitchen window. Greg's hair seemed ablaze with light.

"This is a terrible idea," Tony said. "An awful, terrible idea."

"I know it is. C'mere." Greg opened his arms.

Sober, Greg felt more awkward; his hands gripped the back of Tony's shirt as if he didn't know what to do with them, but the willingness, the desire, all felt familiar. Tony raised his hand and stroked Greg's face. He hadn't shaved; the stubble was rough, but the skin underneath was soft. His mouth was hot.

"If you don't…" Greg said, voice low.

"It's too late."

Back in the bed, Tony found Greg's body to be pure white, carved from bone. His skin was cold too, all-over gooseflesh. He clenched his teeth together as Tony ran his fingers over his belly, as though he were afraid of letting any sound escape. The only sound he offered was a deep, hoarse moan when Tony took him into his mouth, surrendered but keeping up the front. After a moment, recovering himself, he rolled over onto his side and said, smiling, "You know, I think I can go you one better."

*****

"We're moving here," Greg told him.

Tony turned his attention away from the television set. Greg lay beside him, one arm draped around his shoulders. He was someone who needed regular contact. A touch, a caress, some kind of reassurance that Tony was still there. It had taken several months for Tony to get used to it.

"Who's moving?" Tony asked absently.

"Jennifer and I. My wife and I." Greg still hadn't moved. "We've been talking about it for a while."

"Do you know where you'll be?"

"Somewhere in Hampstead. I'm looking at a couple places."

"What brought this decision on?"

"Well, the fact that I'm working pretty regularly now. Doesn't make sense for me to keep flying between two countries when I spend most of my time in one." Greg rolled over, propping his head up with one hand. "Plus, you know, I like it here. Think I might stay a while."

Tony didn't answer. Though on one hand it meant that Greg would be closer at hand, it also meant seeing each other would require more complicated maneuvering. It would be harder on Greg than on him. While he enjoyed Greg's company, he also enjoyed seeing Greg leave in the morning, and having his time to himself again. On some level, Greg knew it. He never offered to stay more than the night, always quietly leaving in the morning. Tony occasionally wished he could let go more, let himself relax into just being with Greg, but the silence when he was alone was too seductive to give up.

"You make things very complicated for yourself," Tony told Greg.

Greg arched his eyebrows and smiled. "It's the way I like it." He laid his hand on Tony's hip. "Won't be too bad. You won't need to have my skinny ass sleeping here quite so much. I can just come over and…hang out."

"Is that what they call it these days?"

"Only in certain circles."

Tony turned off the television. Greg's fingers drummed a steady, gentle rhythm on the curve of his hipbone. He took off Greg's spectacles and laid them aside. Greg squinted at him.

"You absent-minded professor," Tony said.

"Hardly." Greg groped for him. "I can't fucking *see* now, Tony."

"Perhaps I should cover myself in Braille, so you could read me."

Greg swatted in the general direction of his stomach. "Be nice to the handicapped, okay?"

"Well, I don't believe that's what you'd really like me to do." Tony pulled him closer. "Here."

"Got it?"

"Of course." Tony fumbled in the bedside table's drawer. There was a bottle of baby oil somewhere behind the assorted papers, pens and loose change.

Greg propped his head up in one hand. "Dude, why don't you just leave it out? Easy access or whatever?"

Tony managed to get a hold of the bottle. "My mother might come over one day. I don't think I'd like to answer any questions she might have about why I have oil on the nightstand." He held out the oil.

"You know, Tony, mentioning your mom just now? Not the best way to set the mood." Greg grinned. He squeezed the bottle into his right palm and handed it back. Tony shoved it back in the drawer.

"It's so greasy," Greg complained, rubbing his hands together. "Your sheets are gonna be ruined."

"I'll take it in stride," Tony said, trying not to laugh. "Are you quite finished, or would you like to whinge some more?"

"Mmm. Wait a second. Yeah, I think I'm done."

"All right." Tony guided Greg's hand.

Greg had a delicate touch, but a sure one. He swirled an open palm around the head of Tony's cock with slow, steady movements, like a tongue licking ice cream. Tony felt the blood in his body shooting downwards. He felt faintly light-headed. Greg was chuckling.

"Nice to know there are some things I can do right." He pulled his hand away.

"Don't stop."

"Settle. I know what I'm doing." He moved his hand down Tony's shaft, flicking at a tangle of pubic hair. He stroked the shaft with the tips of his fingers, teasing. Tony was about to shout at him when he finally grasped the shaft, sliding his hand to the top, back to the bottom, back to the top again. Tony heard himself moaning. He heard Greg murmuring in his ear, soft, meaningless words that faded into the air as soon as they were spoken. Tony shuddered as he came, Greg's other hand cupped around the head of his cock.

Greg smiled, a myopic cat caught in the cream. "Never let it be said I wasn't good with my hands." Then he went to clean up.

Later, half asleep, Tony rested his head on Greg's chest. Greg was still speaking, his voice a pleasant drowsy hum. Tony tuned into it now and again; he was talking about the cobblestones of Quebec, the sound of horses clopping down them. Tony didn't answer him; Greg didn't expect any answers. It was a bedtime story for himself as much as Tony. Tony had once thought it was an attempt at conversation, but he'd abandoned that conclusion after watching Greg stir as if from a deep sleep when he tried to answer Tony, the replies muddled and confused. Now Tony just shut his eyes and let Greg's voice wash over him, and Greg stroked his hair and talked about the desert in Arizona, or the smell of his grandmother's kitchen.

Sometimes, if Greg drifted off first, he would say the name Jennifer in his sleep.

*****

After Greg moved to Hampstead, things became more clandestine, meeting more infrequent. It wasn't a huge adjustment for Tony to make, but a surprisingly difficult one. He rather missed listening to Greg's voice at night.

"Why did we move to London in the fucking first place?" Greg told him, on the phone from New York. He was on a pay phone; Tony could hear cars honking over the line. "I'm on a plane just as much as I was before. I thought this was gonna simplify things, you know?"

"Nothing's ever simple," Tony said. He stared at the television screen across his room. "What time is it there?"

"Three o'clock. I'll try to call tomorrow if I can get up in time."

"Tell me how the taping goes."

"It'll be the same as usual, but I'll try to think of something interesting to tell you." Greg paused. "I miss you."

"I miss you as well. You can reverse the charges next time you call if you like."

"Yeah. I think I'll spare you the phone bill. What else am I going to do with my money?" There was a click on the other end of the line. "Fuck. I need to go. I'll try to call tomorrow, okay?"

"All right."

"Tomorrow. Bye." Greg hung up. Tony looked up at the ceiling. He had a script to read, an early call for the next morning. He'd been procrastinating, which was unusual.

"Back into the belly of the beast," Tony murmured, and went down into his study, where he did a line and began studying.

*****

Greg called him from Heathrow. "You busy?"

"Hmm? No. Did you just get in?"

"Like ten minutes ago. I have to drop my shit off at my place but then I'm all yours."

"What about…"

There was a small, dry laugh on the other end of the line. "Jennifer's still in the States. Family reunion. She'll be back in a couple of days."

"Ah. Well. I'll put the kettle on for you."

"Can't wait."

Greg arrived ninety minutes later. There was no need for pleasantries; Tony pulled him close, Greg bending his head to meet him. Greg's body was solid, his mouth gently welcoming. For a moment, Tony basked in it.

"Hi," Greg said when he came up for air.

"Hi."

"Brought you something." Greg shifted the paper-encased package under his arm and held it out. "I'd toss it to you, but it's heavy and I might hurt you accidentally."

Tony took it. "You didn't need to bring me anything."

"Well, I don't need to drink, either, but that doesn't mean I don't want to. You got any booze?"

He gestured towards the kitchen. "Help yourself." Greg immediately headed alcohol-ward.

Tony unwrapped the package. It was a heavy book, the pages shiny and new, cover glossy. Physiology and Pathology of the Mind, by Henry Maudsley. It was a first edition. Studying it, Tony was a little amazed that Greg had come to know his habits so well in the past few months; normally people gave him novels or biographies as gifts, not guessing that they'd wind up propping up table legs while Tony reread another medical journal.

"You like it?" Greg appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of brandy. "I figured since you've got all those medical journals lying around, you know, you might appreciate something like that. Is it okay?"

"What a lovely thing for you to do," Tony said.

"Heh. I'm not a candidate for sainthood yet, but I thought this was a good start." Greg yawned. "Shit. Sorry. It was a long flight."

"Where did you find this?"

"There's this little bookshop in New York…I'd been ripping my hair out thinking about what to bring you. You're tough to shop for, buddy."

"Well, I never. I'm rather easy, actually."

"Well, I knew *that.*" Greg wiggled his eyebrows lecherously over the dregs of his brandy. "Hell, half of the greater London area knows that."

"I'll forgive you insulting me because you brought me a present." Tony moved to the doorway and pulled Greg's head down, kissing his forehead. "Have you eaten?"

"Ugh. Yes. Airplane food."

"So you probably never want to eat again."

"Something like that," Greg said. "Sad to say, the only thing I really feel up to right now is watching TV. Even if it's snooker."

"Carry on. I'll join you."

Greg was, it turned out, not in the best shape to watch television, either. Jet lag was catching up with him; his eyes were repeatedly closing of their own accord.

"How long can you stay?" Tony said.

"Um. I have to go back tomorrow. Get the place in order."

"Stay around for breakfast, then. We'll have some decent English food."

"If that definition includes beans and mushy tomatoes, I think I'll pass." Greg yawned. "Sorry."

"Something more Continental, then."

"Mmm." Greg took off his spectacles and clasped them loosely in one hand. "I wanted to apologize."

"For what?"

"Don't know. This whole logistical nightmare I got you into."

"Bloody hell. Don't get guilt-ridden now."

"Fuck you, it's what I'm made for. I was thinking that, you know. Normal relationship stuff? Dates and whatever? That might be nice for you."

"I don't strive towards normality." Tony wrapped an arm around Greg's shoulders. "You're beginning to babble, dear boy."

"'M all right," Greg mumbled. "I'm just sayin'."

"I think I could be quite comfortable with you," Tony said.

"That's nice."

"Nothing more eloquent than that to say?"

The only answer was the soft whistle of Greg's sleep-breathing. Tony extricated his arm and rolled over. Greg stirred but didn't wake. He always seemed so worried when he slept, brows knotted together, mouth downturned. His fingers were still wrapped around his spectacles; lying on his side, curled into the protective ball that Tony had come to recognize as his usual sleep position, he clutched them like a security blanket. Tony pondered letting him keep them, but the chance of their getting broken seemed alarmingly high, so he gently uncurled Greg's fingers, trying not to wake him.

It didn't work. Greg's eyes fluttered open. Tony watched him trying to focus.

"Shh. Go back to sleep. I'm just putting these aside for you."

"No, I can stay awake."

"I'm sure you can." Tony laid the spectacles on the bedside table. "Try anyway. Poor sod."

Greg scowled. He moved closer and hooked his foot over Tony's ankle. "Got to be…pain in the ass…" He fell back to sleep. Tony lay quietly, not willing to move until Greg did.

*****

It was easy to maintain a relationship with Greg. Tony knew exactly what was expected, what the limits were. It was all laid out for him.

If he sometimes laid awake wondering about Greg's wife, or remembering his priest's sermons about adultery and fornication, or just feeling his soul twist inside, that too was expected and part of the plan. It was nothing out of the ordinary.

So he continued with it, as naturally and repetitively as breathing.

*****

Tony was moving house. It was a partially furnished second-floor flat in Wapping, near the river. He enlisted Greg to help him move in completely. It was a long afternoon of dragging boxes up stairs.

Tony laid one of the last boxes by the door and surveyed the flat. The place was a DIY paradise, or so the estate agent had told him. "You'll make it your own in no time." He let his eyes travel up and down the long thin living room. The walls were bare and cream colored. He hadn't brought any of his carpets, so the floorboards were bare as well. The only decoration was the boxes scattered about the room, and the furniture. The green sofa had to go. Tony stared around the room, unsure of what to do next.

"How the fuck did you acquire so much stuff?" Greg said from the doorway, clutching a box. "Where do I put this?"

Startled out of inertia, Tony peered at the box. "Kitchen. But just put it by the door. I'll sort them out later."

"Thank God." Greg put the box down. His face was streaked with sweat. "Do you have anything else?"

"No, no, I don't think so. Would you like some water?"

"Please."

Tony went into the kitchen. He'd taken out the bare essentials: forks, knives, a few plates and glasses. Otherwise the cupboards were also bare. *And so the poor doggy had none.*

He turned on the faucet, wondering what was happening. He had expected to feel…something. But there was nothing there. It was hard to name, just a feeling of lack. Nothing stirred in him.

*Bloody hell,* Tony thought, *Not this again.* He knew this feeling, he'd just thought he'd gotten past it. Black periods. His father had them; it seemed to be hereditary. He looked towards the living room, the detritus and boxes scattered around. *Not bloody now.*

"Tony?" Greg called. He didn't answer.

Greg came into the kitchen. "I have this sinking feeling that you had something fragile around…Jesus. You okay?"

Tony quickly turned off the faucet. "Yes, yes, fine."

Greg came up behind him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. "Moving sucks."

"I suppose." What was frightening was that he could stand there, in Greg's familiar grasp, and he felt nothing resembling a human emotion.

"It's all right, Greg," he said, and knew it wasn't.

*****

He wasn't going to be pleasant company for a while. The best way to handle it was to withdraw for a bit, deflect attention from himself until he could act normal again. He had his own system for dealing with something like this.

There were chemists in the area. Tony went to all of them. Minor celebrity guaranteed a lot of things; having dodgy prescriptions accepted was one of them. Slimming pills, they used to be called, harmless-looking tablets that rattled comfortingly in the vial. Back at the flat, he lined the vials up in a row, all facing the same way.

The answerphone light was blinking. He ignored it.

He had an advert to shoot on Monday morning, a chat show spot on Tuesday, a Whose Line taping next Friday. He didn't have much time. A night or so to wrestle with the beast, then get himself together and go to work.

He shut his eyes. The void inside him widened, shifted, an almost physical feeling. Tiny fingers on the inside of his brain.

*Mustn't give in.* He surveyed the flat, trying to think of something to do. Anything that was distracting. He still hadn't quite unpacked; the carpets were still rolled up, there were only a few dishes in the kitchen. His books and most of his clothes were still in their cardboard boxes. Looking at it spread over the flat filled him with a kind of hopeless rage. It was ridiculous for him to have it. It was ridiculous that he could fit his entire life into a few boxes.

He moved to the sofa and idly kicked its leg, then brought his fist down on the back. There was no power in the strike; his hand just bounced off the fabric. It was all wrong.

He pushed the sofa to one side. The legs screeched along the wooden floor. There would be marks. He heaved his weight against the unyielding bulk of the sofa, shoving it with his shoulder. He only stopped when he'd pushed it against the far right wall. He took a step back and surveyed it. It still seemed wrong. He pushed it up and down the length of the flat, sweat dripping down his face. No matter where he put it, it seemed out of place in the empty flat. It was an eyesore in green fabric.

He shoved it back to its original place and sank down on it, feeling the ache in his back and shoulders. Sweat stung his eyes. He wanted to cry, or scream at the top of his lungs, or throw something against the wall. But when he opened his mouth, his throat froze. He sat without moving, unable to make a sound.

*****

The phone was ringing again. It had been ringing off and on for the past day or two. He'd lost track of the time. The ringing had ceased to be an irritation to him and turned into just another background noise, like the cars driving by outside or the short blasts of radio music that floated up from the street.

The answerphone clicked on. Tony dimly recognized the thick Scouse accent on the machine. It was Tom, the advert director.

"Where the fuck are you? We've been waiting here for you for two bloody hours. You've wasted us a day of work."

*It must be Monday, then.* He managed to get up enough energy to look at his watch. It was nearing eleven. He thought about rushing down to the set, making apologies, making everything all better. But then he thought that he couldn't give a toss. The void had taken over. The fingers on his brain had mutated, turned to tiny, parasitic mouths. Lips and teeth and tongues lapping at him, sucking and biting. If anyone were to cut him open, they'd spill out. He shut his eyes.

*****

The sound of the door opening was almost offensively loud; the hinges screeched. The footsteps coming down the hall resounded almost as loudly. Tony flinched out of reflex. He had the idle thought, *It's a burglar, someone's broken in,* but the mouths inside him had rather effectively done the job of sucking out any vestige of feeling. The most he could muster was a vague curiosity.

"Jesus Christ, you look like hell," Greg said.

Tony didn't raise his head. Greg must have used his key then. He wondered what to say. It occurred to him that the last time he'd spoken had been a week ago, at his parents' house. He cleared his throat and rasped, "Did you want something?"

"I want to know what the fuck's going on." Greg sat down across from him. "I'm concerned, all right? You move in here and suddenly I don't see you for two months? I've been calling you for the last two weeks, you don't answer the phone…I almost killed myself tripping over that small hill of mail you have at the front door. Why is it so dark in here?" He flicked on the table lamp; the light pierced through the room. Tony winced.

"Turn that bloody thing off."

"Are you stoned?"

The flow of words was exhausting. Tony wanted to lie down and sleep for a week. The only thought in his head was, *Get him out of here.* "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't bullshit me, Tony. What is it? Speed? Your eyes are fucking *twitching.*"

"Good to see you've become a Puritan in your old age."

"It's not…Have you even been out of the flat?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything. This has really been a charming interrogation, Greg, but I'm going to end it."

Greg didn't move. "I just want to know what's wrong."

"Last I heard, that was none of your affair."

"Really. You don't mind my coming over to exchange bodily fluids but I try to talk to you and it's none of my business? Faulty logic, Tony. You better work on that."

"I'll keep it in mind. Are you finished?"

"What the fuck's your problem?"

"I could ask you the same thing. You obviously have nothing better to do with your time than bother me."

"I'm not even going to answer that."

"Well, oh, dear." Suddenly something clicked on, scalding rage brought into focus. "Did you really think you could burst in and demand that I tell you about things that are my own bloody business, and I'd give you a cup of tea and a biscuit and let you? Are you really that fucking stupid? Do you act this way with your wife, Greg? It's probably no wonder that you need to get a bit on the side."

Something flashed in Greg's eyes. He drew back on the sofa, his jaw hardening. "Don't try to turn this on me."

"Why not?" Tony rose. He felt energized. The mouths had stopped their gnawing, allowing blood to flow back into his body. "Are things really so bad at home, Greg? Tell me something. Have you ever called my name out by accident? Or talked in your sleep, perhaps? Has she even noticed? Or doesn't she even care anymore?"

Greg didn't answer. Tony said, gaining speed, "Perhaps it's that something's wrong with her, is that it? Hmm? What is it, that she's crap in bed or…"

Greg got up off the sofa. He was visibly shaking, a rope pulled too tightly, threatening to snap. "Leave my wife out of this."

"You're not in a position to tell me what to do. You've always had it your way, now it's my turn. She doesn't know, does she?" The phone was on the coffee table by the sofa. Tony took a step towards it. He had the briefest flash of thought---*See how he reacts to this,*---and reached for the receiver. "Hmm? It'd be terribly easy for me to call her. See how she'd react."

Greg didn't bat an eye. "This is the fucking cheapest ploy I've ever seen. Where'd you get the idea from?"

"What's your number again?"

"You know what it is." Greg came forward, standing over the phone. He didn't make a move. "Fuckin' do it. Let me deal with the consequences. I dare you."

The receiver was slick and cold in his hands. He had Greg's phone number memorized; it would take ten seconds to dial. He stared down at the phone. The rage was gone, leaving him slowed and clotted again. There was a creeping horror at the back of his head. For a moment, it had looked so easy. Tony put the receiver down.

"I thought so," Greg said softly. Then he picked up the phone and threw it against the wall, hard. The receiver fell to one side; Tony heard the droning electrical noise of the dial tone.

Greg suddenly had him by the shoulders, holding him tightly enough to hurt. Tony leaned into the pain, trying to intensify it.

"Don't you ever say anything about my wife again," Greg said. He was still shaking, pale skin flushed with anger. "You can do whatever you fucking want to me, but if you ever say anything about her, anything at all…" He took a deep breath.

"I know," Tony said. "I know."

Greg let him go and retreated backwards. Tony could still feel the imprint of Greg's hands on his shoulders.

"This isn't you, Tony," Greg said. He dragged his fingers through his hair, repetitively, almost compulsively. "What happened?" There was no more interrogation. He sounded almost plaintive.

Tony shook his head. He had no answers; he wasn't sure there were any.

"They're talking about firing you," Greg said.

"Who?"

"Dan and Denise. I overheard them talking in the hallway yesterday. You're fucking yourself up, Tony. You're fucking up your whole *life.*"

"I suppose I am."

"Do you even care?"

"No. No, I don't."

"You need to see a doctor."

"That's not the answer."

"I've got news for you, buddy. Neither is sitting here eating yourself alive."

"Oh."

"Don't fucking 'oh' me." Greg came closer. "I'm going to be as gentle as I can, and considering that I'm still mightily pissed off, it's not gonna be easy. You're sick."

*Sick.* The word conjured up vague and unpleasant images that Tony didn't want to examine.

"I can call a doctor. I saw this guy for a couple of months a while back. I've got the number around somewhere, I'll set something up."

"It's not really a life-threatening situation, Greg."

"Please don't…It's not like it's some big fucking sin, either."

Tony shook his head. He told himself that he wasn't afraid or ashamed. The only thing he knew was that it wasn't physically possible to walk outside the door. But he didn't have the energy to say so.

"Consider it a favor to me, okay? You won't have to do shit."

"All right, all right."

"You're just agreeing so I'll shut up."

Tony said nothing. Greg put his arms around him stiffly. The anger hadn't yet completely faded. For a moment the physical contact was almost repulsive; Tony started to pull away.

"*Don't,* goddamnit. Just stay with me for a minute." Greg put his hand up, cupping the back of Tony's head.

"You don't need to do this," Tony whispered. Greg felt achingly familiar, solid, unbreakable.

"And that's where you're wrong."

*****

Greg was, at heart, an organizer. He came to the flat a week later and dragged Tony down to Snowsfields. He stood outside the building's door with Tony.

"I can go in with you."

"I think I've been nannied enough."

"All right. I'll try to talk to you later." Greg pushed the hair back from Tony's forehead. "It's going to be okay."

*That remains to be seen.* Tony went inside the building.

The doctor's last name was Eldridge. He was younger than Tony had expected, striking a rather self-consciously hip pose in his leather chair. He offered coffee, a cup of tea. Tony shook his head to both offers.

"Greg seemed rather concerned about you on the phone." The voice was deep and plummy. "I usually take a bit of a history over the phone, but I think we could do that now."

Tony gave him the usual rundown: parents, childhood, schooling. There was a small crack in the ceiling just above Eldridge's head; Tony stared at it, wondering if it would widen and break, dust and wood raining down on their heads.

"Do you realize," Eldridge said, "how tightly you're gripping the chair? Is something wrong?"

Tony looked down. His knuckles were white, fingers digging into the armrests of the slick leather chair. He forced himself to let go and watched the imprints of his fingers fade. "No, nothing's wrong."

"Why don't you tell me a little about what brought you here?"

"Greg brought me here. I believe you probably knew that."

"Other than Greg. What's happened to warrant him calling me?"

"It would seem that Greg thinks I've gone a bit mad."

"Why?"

"I suppose we all have our little psychological baggages."

"That's true. Sometimes, however, we can feel overwhelmed by them."

*The royal 'we' now? Oh, fucking hell.* "Is that so?"

Eldridge stared at him. He stared back, refusing to say anything else.

"You know," Eldridge said pleasantly, as if they'd just been having wine and cheese, "I can feel more rage and pain coming off of you than I have in ten years of practice."

*Well, that's a fucking good diagnosis.* Tony rested his hand under his chin, as though he were extremely interested.

"Frankly, I think that the best course of action for you right now would be if you took a taxi and went to hospital."

Tony wondered what he was meant to reply to that. Thank you, that sounds nice? You've just wasted an hour of my time to tell me that I should go into the Priory? *The Priory. A bloody show business mental ward. Make deals whilst strapped to the bed.* His stomach lurched. He wanted to be sick. Instead, he just said, "Oh."

The clock on Eldridge's desk chimed softly. Tony stood up silently. Eldridge stood up.

"You're a very sick man." There was infinite pity in his voice. Tony wanted to scream. He turned and walked out of the office.

*****

Tony had it sorted. The idea of going into hospital was frightening and in some deep way shameful, a sign of failure. The thought of going back to work, of getting back on the revolving wheel, was not an option. It was all one long grind and it never ended and it never got him anywhere. All he really wanted was to stay inside the flat, dragging himself out to see his parents on Sundays so they wouldn't worry. It wouldn't do to worry them. Otherwise he had to shear off the detritus of his life. Staying inside, with nothing but the pills and the alcohol and the blinking light of the answerphone, was correct. It was clean. It was known. It was right.

And then there was Greg.

He came to the flat once more. Tony steeled himself for more questions.

"You've already decided what you're going to do, I take it." Greg's voice was flat, but Tony could feel the tension coming off him.

"Yes."

"Think you'll change your mind?"

"No. No, I don't."

"Can I turn on the light?"

"If you'd like to."

Greg turned on the table lamp. Tony winced.

"I won't watch you fucking kill yourself, Tony," Greg said. "I'll do a lot, but I'm not gonna watch you die."

"I won't die." Tony felt secure in the knowledge. He was safe. His own private, impenetrable hell.

"You fucking *will.*" Greg chewed at the skin of his thumb.

"Go home, Greg." His voice was incredibly gentle. "Go home to your wife."

"I just want everything to be okay, all right? I mean, Jesus Christ, Tony, I care about you."

For a moment, Tony felt almost human again. Poor Greg. Poor sad Greg. And then it faded away. He said, "I'm sorry that you feel that way."

"That's it?" Being gentle hadn't helped; Greg looked cracked open. "That's all I fucking *merit,* Tony? 'I'm sorry you feel that way?'"

Tony didn't answer for a long time. "I'm sorry."

"You asshole. You fucking punk." Greg dragged shaking hands through his hair. "You fucking *punk.*"

It wasn't enough to hurt him. "Go home, Greg. Go home and don't come back."

Greg swallowed. He stood for a moment, unsure of where to put his hands, his body drawing backwards as if to escape a tidal wave. He turned and walked out silently.

*****

The last time he heard Greg's voice, he was sitting on the sofa, watching the answerphone light flash. He heard his recorded message, then the beep. Greg's voice, taut and wavering, filled the room.

"Hi. It's me. I know you're there. Can you pick up? Make some goddamned effort? Well? I guess not. Look. I'm…I have to leave, Tony. You understand? The Home Office's on my ass about something, they're tellin' me that…" He took a deep breath. "That I have to get out of here. I'm going back to the States. I'm not sure when I'll be back. Hell, I don't know if…Could you talk to me, please? I just want to…Tony, if you do one *fucking* thing in your life, you'll do this for me. Please. Just talk to me one time. Can you please pick up? Just for a second?…Oh, fuck you." He heard the click as Greg hung up.

For a long time afterward, Tony would hear planes overhead, and he would imagine Greg was on every one of them, flying back across the Atlantic Ocean, blue-gray waters stretching for miles. He told himself it was easy to lose someone with an ocean that size.


End file.
